The Painted Veil: W. Somerset Maugham Make-believe and the Real Title of Maugham’s books, especially his novels, are always intriguing. A critic once poohpoohed one of his books saying it had the usual Maugham fare - a mishmash of old themes. His next story collection was titled, Mixture as Before. Title and epigraph of The Painted Veil come from P.B. Shelley’s poem Lift Not the Painted Veil. It is more profitable to read the complete poem – presuming one hasn’t read it yet – after they have finished the book. One can then variously interpret Maugham’s allusion to a painted veil. In the preface, Maugham recounts how he came to write the book. ‘I think that this is the only novel I have written in which I started from a story rather than from a character. It is difficult to explain the relation between character and plot. You cannot very well think of a character in the void; the moment you think of him, you think of him in some situation, doing something.' Idea for the s...
Drudgery of daily living saps life of its every joy. In drudgery, I do not imply the bleakness of ho-hum chores that comprise work. Most challenging tasks fall into a pattern with numbing familiarity when performed repeatedly over a long time. Even a creative art, be it writing, music, acting, film-making, etc., that seems to promise a fresh perspective every day is just a professional work for the artist. Only those who practice it with the rigour of an artisan excel in their field and create a body of work that public admires as their contribution to the art. I use the phrase drudgery of daily living for the tyranny of work that is necessary to sustain life yet blights it simultaneously. This is the lot of most men - A life of bondage with no redemption in sight. When stuck in this station, they must work incessantly from day to night to afford the means to preserve the breath, only to wake up another day, and begin once again the life-scorching saga. Few people are fortunate t...
I received her in the cartel of relatives that followed Archana, my wife, into my life. She was the wife of Archana’s maternal uncle. I met Archana first, at her place. We sat in a room lined by tall book-cases. From their spines, books appeared old, many were leather-bound. Atmosphere was stiff. None appeared comfortable to make light conversation. Stilted inane talk filled the room and made the air heavy. Mamiji salvaged the situation. She spoke to me with a candour that belied the fact that we were meeting for the first time. She asked me direct questions about my job. She wanted to know how Archana, who was then pursuing post-graduate degree in Pathology, would practice her profession in Air Force where I had been commissioned a few months back. There was not a trace of hesitation in her voice, but neither did she sound nosy. She keenly listened to my answers. I instantly warmed up to this elderly lady. Those days Mamiji lived in an old house in Bengali Market in Central ...
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